Callum moved back toward the halfway line, his teammates swarming him with loud claps on his shoulders and enthusiastic sounds of approval.
“Unbelievable, Cal! Unbelievable!” one of them shouted over the deafening noise, as they jogged into position.
Callum just grinned, wiping a streak of sweat from his temple, his eyes already locked back onto the ball sitting at the center spot.
For the rest of the half, it was about maintaining possession and passing in the midfield.
The Cardiff players dropped deep in an attempt to pass their way out of their half, only to be met by Leeds’ heavy press.
As their defensive midfielder, Whittingham controls the ball, and Callum moves toward him with predatory intent, the referee blows the whistle signalling for half-time.
PWEET!
PWEEET!
Callum skidded to a halt a yard away, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist.
He didn’t say a word, just offered a smirk and a sharp nod before turning on his heel toward the tunnel.
Elland Road rose in unison, a deafening wall of applause and cheers echoing off the rafters of the West Stand as the white jerseys began congregating toward the pitch entrance.
Callum wiped his sweat again, rolling his shoulders as his teammates clapped him on the back, the momentum of the half firmly in their pockets.
Pushing the door of the dressing room ajar, Callum got a bottle of water from a member of staff along with a towel.
Wiping his face and took a swig from the white squeeze bottle with the Leeds logo emblazoned on it in blue.
Callum lowers himself onto the bench, as the rest of the team files in with Rösler in tow.
The German’s eyes are sharp and full of restless energy as he immediately turns to the magnetic tactics board pinned to the wall.
He snaps his fingers, drawing the squad’s attention, while the heavy oak door clicked shut behind the last arriving player, cutting off the lingering roar from the stands.
“Settle down, good intensity in the first half,” Rösler barked in his thick German accent, pacing the space before the benches.
“We forced them into their own third; we made them panic! But Cardiff are going to adjust. Gunnarsson and Whittingham are getting overrun in the middle; they will try to play longer in the second half.”
He grabbed a black marker, aggressively circling the central space on the board before turning his gaze directly toward Callum.
Callum set the squeeze bottle down between his feet, the towel draped over his shoulders, and met his manager’s eye.
“Cal,” Rösler said, pointing the marker straight at him.
“You’ve got their center-backs rattled. The moment they touch the ball, they look for exit routes because they know you’re on them. Second half, I want you driving into that channel between the full-back and the left center-back. They can’t handle your pace when you turn them. While you do that and confuse them, Lewis will move into the half space and give Doukara and Stuart more freedom on the wings.”
Callum gave a single, sharp nod, his eyes fixed on the board as Rösler uncapped his red marker, rapidly sketching an arrow straight into the gap between Cardiff’s right-back, Lee Peltier, and center-back Sean Morrison.
“Souleymane,” Rösler turned toward Doukara, tapping the board heavily with his knuckle.
“When Cal pulls Morrison out wide into that channel, you drag Connolly with you into the six-yard box.
Do not let him cover across.
Stuart,” he snapped his head toward Dallas, “you stay wide on the right, stretch their line, and lock their full-back down.
If he tries to come close, get up close, hug the touchline.
If he decides to stay on Callum.
Exploit that weakness and make a run down the flank.
That leaves Lewis with all the space in the world to push into the half-space.”
Lewis Cook wiped sweat from his forehead with his jersey, giving a cold, focused nod.
“The moment Callum forces the turnover or opens that gap,” Rösler growled, looking straight into Callum’s eyes, “the first pass goes forward, not sideways. They are bleeding on that flank. We puncture them there, we kill the game!”
Rösler slammed the marker cap back on with a loud snap that echoed against the damp tile walls.
“Keep the intensity, maintain the formation, and kill the game”
Callum pushed off the bench, tossing his towel onto the rack.
He grabbed his water bottle, took one last quick sip, and tossed it into the bin by the door before adjusting his shinpads and tugging his white kit snug over his torso.
Walking out into the tunnel, Callum rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension coiled tightly in his muscles.
Next to him, Souleymane Doukara was bouncing on his toes, exhaling heavy breaths that turned to mist in the chill, while Stuart Dallas fixed his shin pads with a focused stare straight ahead.
The Cardiff players shuffled into their line on the opposite side of the narrow passageway.
Callum didn’t miss the cautious, sideways glances the Cardiff defense kept throwing his way.
Their eyes were heavy; they were already feeling the toll of forty-five minutes of relentless pressing, and the second half hadn’t even begun.
At the front of the line, the referee checked his watch, rolling the ball in his hands, and gave a sharp signal.
“Alright lads, let’s set the tempo early! Right on them!” Sol called out, his voice getting drowned out over the music from the stadium.
The players file out, the lines looser compared to the ones of the first half.
Callum stands just beyond the center circle.
A few Cardiff players were still muttering amongst themselves, trying to adjust their defensive assignments on the fly.
His boots dug lightly into the damp grass.
He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, loosening his calves while his eyes narrowed on Cardiff’s kickoff setup.
The players glanced up, anticipating the blow of the whistle as the match got underway.
Cardiff gets the game going as their striker plays a pass into the midfield.
For 15 minutes, it’s a battle of attrition and physicality; no real chances emerge as Cardiff press relentlessly, pinning Leeds in their own half, with the momentum seemingly belonging to the Bluebirds.
Callum faced an even more physically demanding challenge than the first half, bringing himself into proximity with the defenders as he pressed their backline, moving from Morrison to Peltier.
Most times, they would manage to scramble clearances, but Callum received no grace in the pressing front.
That was until Doukara managed to hit the ball on a defender for a corner kick.
Taylor stood over the ball, taking 5 steps backwards; he raised his left hand.
In the box, Callum queued up with Doukara, Dallas, and Bamba.
Morrison was practically wearing Callum’s shirt as he was right beside him.
Charlie floats the ball into the penalty area, Callum drops his shoulder and manages to explode away from Morrison, before rising into the air.
He heads the ball ferociously toward the bottom corner, but it is parried by their keeper.
The loose ball lands before Cook, who taps the ball into a waiting goal. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
Cook sprinted straight toward the corner flag with his arms spread wide, but before he could even reach the line, Callum engulfed him from behind.
And the rest of the team followed suit.
Down by the touchline, Uwe Rösler and his assistant Kelly took off in unison, leaping into the cold night air and pumping their fists with wild, unrestrained passion.
Rösler turned to the main stand, letting out a roar that matched the fans screaming around them, while Kelly grabbed him in a heavy side-hug.
GOAL!
(60′)
Leeds United 3-1 Cardiff City F.C
All the momentum Cardiff had built up crumbled as the match got back underway.
They tried substituting their wingers and their midfielders to no avail; fresh legs did nothing to mend their shattered rhythm or break down a Leeds side now playing with supreme, arrogance-tinged composure.
Leeds had thoroughly suffocated them.
Cook was controlling the tempo in the half-spaces and Callum continuing to menace their backline with his tireless runs into the channels.
Cardiff were forced further and further onto the back foot.
Every attempt by the Bluebirds to build out from the back was met by a wall of white jerseys, led by Callum’s unrelenting pressure.
Morrison and Peltier could only look on in growing frustration as the clock ticked away, the home fans taunting every Cardiff touch with a deafening chorus of “Ole!”
By the time the four minutes of added time flashed on the fourth official’s board, the visitors were simply passing the ball sideways in their own half, completely defeated.
When the referee finally blew the full-time whistle, Elland Road erupted once more.
Callum inwardly celebrates, a smile dancing on his face as he hears the fans chant.
The Cardiff players walk off the pitch, their heads hung low.
Callum slapped hands with Bamba and threw an arm around Lewis Cook’s shoulders as they made their way toward the tunnel, the entire team clapping and raising their arms toward the four corners of Elland Road.
The crowd roared back in appreciation, waving scarves and chanting as the players exited in small, beaming groups, high-fiving the coaching staff lining the touchline.
“Great header, Cal! Put it on a plate for me!” Cook shouted over the din, grinning ear to ear as he gave Callum’s shoulder a rough shove.
“Set you up for a tap-in, you mean, Cooky?” Callum fired back with a grin, shaking out his tired legs as they walked toward the dressing room.
However, a member of the Championship press stopped them.
A stunning, sharp-witted blonde reporter in an immaculate dark tailored coat stepped right into their path, a cameraman pivoting smoothly to capture the two of them under the glaring tunnel lights.
Her credentials swayed gently against her chest as she flashed them a warm, brilliant smile, her bright green eyes locking onto Callum for a split second before looking between the pair.
“Callum, Lewis, incredible performance out there tonight. Do you have a quick minute for Sky Sports?” she asked, her voice rich and charming as she smoothly extended the microphone toward them.
“For you? Always got time,” Cook said with a dry grin, instantly slinging an arm around Callum’s shoulder and puffing his chest out just a little for the camera.
“Callum, let’s start with you,” she said, leaning in slightly as her focus shifted entirely to him, a knowing, playful smirk touching the edges of her lips.
“A magnificent brace to and Fifteen minutes into that second half, Cardiff had you completely pinned back. Then, out of nowhere, you pull off a powerful leap, one of the highest recorded in the championship, right over Sean Morrison. Walk me through what was going through your head in that exact moment.”
Callum wiped a stray bead of sweat from his forehead, holding her gaze with a breathless, confident grin.
“Yeah, look, credit to Cardiff, they came out firing in the second half and tried to suffocate us. But we knew if we stayed patient and executed our coach’s plan, an opportunity would come to finish the game. Charlie put in a quality ball, and I just tried to get up early and direct it low into the corner. Their keeper made a great save, but Cooky did what all good midfielders do, followed it in and tapped it home. The brace was textbook really, I saw my chances and took them”
“A tap-in, mind you!” Cook chimed in cheerfully, giving the reporter a wink.
“Textbook goalscorer’s instinct!”
“He’s taking all the credit, as usual,” Callum laughed, shaking his head.
“No, but seriously, three points, and a massive team effort tonight. That’s all that matters.”
“Well, it was a stunning header, Callum,” she said, her tone dropping into something a bit more intimate before she looked back into the camera lens.
“Three points in the bag, twelve points clear of the drop zone, and a massive night for Leeds United. Thanks for your time, boys, go enjoy the celebration.”
“Brilliant stuff, lads. Go enjoy the win,” the reporter smiled, gesturing for the camera to cut.
Cook slapped Callum’s back as they finally pushed through the heavy wooden doors into the home dressing room, where the bass was already shaking the walls.
When Callum stepped through, Rösler patted his shoulder, giving it an emphatic squeeze.
“Tremendous work, Cal. You ran Morrison and Peltier into the dirt. That’s exactly what we needed!”
Sitting down on the bench, Callum unlaced his boots, tossed them into the center bin, and collapsed back onto the bench with an exhausted, triumphant sigh, grabbing a water as the celebration buzzed around him.
He leaned his head back against the wall, taking a slow, deep swig from the bottle as the cold water cut through the dry burn in his throat.
Beside him, Doukara was bellowing along to the bass thumping out of the dressing room speakers, while Bamba tossed a sweat-drenched shirt into the laundry hamper with a loud laugh.
“That’s three points where they belong!” Bamba shouted back over the music, pointing a finger straight at Callum.
“And this kid had their back four chasing ghosts all night!”
A roar of agreement went up from the far side of the room.
Charlie tossed a fresh towel to Callum, giving him a rough pat on the shoulder as he passed by.
“Get used to it, Cal. Keep running like that, and you’ll have every team we play asking for oxygen masks.”
Callum’s muscles were already beginning to stiffen up from the sheer exertion of the ninety minutes, but the adrenaline lingering in his veins made the fatigue feel distant, almost weightless.
Through the middle of the room, Rösler stood, holding a bottle of water in one hand and his tactics clipboard in the other.
He clapped his hands together twice, a sharp, authoritative crack that somehow cut right through the booming bass.
“Listen up! Listen!” Rösler called out, a massive grin breaking through his usually stern features.
The music cut out, and the room quieted down just a fraction, eyes turning toward the manager.
“Tonight, you played like Leeds United,” Rösler said, his voice ringing with pride as he scanned the room, stopping briefly on Callum, Cook, and Bamba.
“You all played briliantly in the first half, and you suffered for fifteen minutes in that second half; you stood firm, and the moment they gave you an inch, you killed them. Enjoy tonight. We resume training on Monday. As of right now, we are 12 clear of the drop zone. But that doesn’t mean we should be complacent.”
The room took in the manager’s words with a collective nod of quiet understanding before the music roared back to life, reclaiming the space.
Callum took another long drink from his water bottle, watching Bamba and Doukara launch into an impromptu victory dance while Cook tried to dodge a drenched towel thrown by Mowatt.
Kalvin and Liam are bantering about the music.
Phillips was doubled over laughing, pointing at Liam Cooper as Cooper passionately and horribly tried to belt out the chorus over the booming bass, holding an empty spray bottle like a microphone.
“Coops, mate, stop! You’re killing the vibe!” Kalvin shouted, tossing a rolled-up pair of socks right at his head.
“You don’t appreciate real music, Phils!” Cooper barked back, ducking the socks without missing a beat and trying to hit a ridiculously high note that made Sol Bamba stop dancing just to point and burst into belly laughs.
Over in the corner, away from the absolute madness, Marco Silvestri was propped up against his locker, his phone held out in front of him.
A wide, gentle smile replaced his usual intense game-face as his wife’s face filled the screen
Callum leaned his head back against the brick wall, a quiet smile playing on his lips as he soaked it all in. The source of this chapter is g.com.
Suddenly his own phone buzzed with a notification.
Callum reached into his bag, pulling out his phone.
The screen illuminated his face, displaying a fresh notification right at the top of the display.
There were two notifications.
The first was a text from his dad with an image of both him and his mother in Leeds kits watching the Television:
What a bloody chip, son!
Absolutely brilliant performance out there.
Your mum and I are proud of you!
A genuine, tired chuckle escaped Callum’s lips.
He quickly typed back a reply:
Haha, thanks, Dad.
Appreciate it!
Tell mum hi for me.
The second notification was from Chloe:
Unbelievable game tonight, Cal!
Saw you towering over their defenders like it was nothing 🤯🔥 So proud of you!
Get some rest, superstar!
Callum felt the warm prickle of a grin spread across his face, the heavy ache in his muscles fading into the background for a second.
He tapped on the message and quickly typed back:
Thanks Chloe!
Nearly had one myself, but Cooky was right there to finish it off haha.
Appreciate you watching! x
Before he could even put his phone away, it buzzed in his palm again.
Chloe’s reply popped up on the screen almost instantly:
I know you must have plans, celebrating with your team.
How about you let me take you out for dinner instead?
You’ve definitely earned a proper meal after running yourself into the ground for 90 minutes 🍝👀
Callum stared at the screen, the grin on his face growing wider.
Over by the laundry bins, Cook caught Callum staring down at his phone with that soft, distraction-filled smile.
“Oi, Cal!” Cook yelled, tossing a rolled-up sock right at his chest.
“Who’s got you smirking like that? You looking at your goals again or what?”
“Mind your business, Cooky,” Callum laughed, catching the sock mid-air and tossing it back.
He looked down at his screen, his thumb flying across the keyboard as he typed out his reply:
I’m definitely not turning down free food after tonight.
Name the time and place and I’m there.
Chloe’s text popped up almost immediately:
Great!
How about 9 tonight?
There’s a nice little spot downtown that stays open late.
I’ll text you the address!
🥂
Callum glanced up at the clock on the dressing room wall; it was just pushing 7 PM.
That gave him just enough time to hit the showers, get back to his apartment, and swap his kit for something presentable.
He quickly replied:
9 works perfectly.
Send over the address, and I’ll meet you there!
Locking his phone, he threw it into his bag and pushed himself up from the bench, his legs stiff but his spirits sky-high.
“Right, who’s taking up the shower space?” Callum called out into the room, grabbing his towel and washbag.
“All yours, big man!” Sol Bamba yelled back over the music, pointing toward the steaming shower room.
“Just don’t take all the hot water!”
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A/N: Done with Cardiff, trying out a new writing style.
Tell me if you guys like it.
I also have been asked what Callum looks like, and I will attach the image of what I think he should look like to this Paragraph.